Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding we had: he and I, the parson and clerk, were alone present. When we got back from church, I went into the kitchen of the manor-house, where Mary was cooking the dinner and John cleaning the knives, and I said -
"Mary, I have been married to Mr. Rochester this morning." The housekeeper2 and her husband were both of that decent phlegmatic3 order of people, to whom one may at any time safely communicate a remarkable4 piece of news without incurring5 the danger of having one's ears pierced by some shrill6 ejaculation, and subsequently stunned7 by a torrent8 of wordy wonderment. Mary did look up, and she did stare at me: the ladle with which she was basting9 a pair of chickens roasting at the fire, did for some three minutes hang suspended in air; and for the same space of time John's knives also had rest from the polishing process: but Mary, bending again over the roast, said only -
"Have you, Miss? Well, for sure!"
A short time after she pursued--"I seed you go out with the master, but I didn't know you were gone to church to be wed1;" and she basted10 away. John, when I turned to him, was grinning from ear to ear.
"I telled Mary how it would be," he said: "I knew what Mr. Edward" (John was an old servant, and had known his master when he was the cadet of the house, therefore, he often gave him his Christian11 name)--"I knew what Mr. Edward would do; and I was certain he would not wait long neither: and he's done right, for aught I know. I wish you joy, Miss!" and he politely pulled his forelock.
"Thank you, John. Mr. Rochester told me to give you and Mary this." I put into his hand a five-pound note. Without waiting to hear more, I left the kitchen. In passing the door of that sanctum some time after, I caught the words -
"She'll happen do better for him nor ony o't' grand ladies." And again, "If she ben't one o' th' handsomest, she's noan faal and varry good-natured; and i' his een she's fair beautiful, onybody may see that."
I wrote to Moor12 House and to Cambridge immediately, to say what I had done: fully13 explaining also why I had thus acted. Diana and Mary approved the step unreservedly. Diana announced that she would just give me time to get over the honeymoon14, and then she would come and see me.
"She had better not wait till then, Jane," said Mr. Rochester, when I read her letter to him; "if she does, she will be too late, for our honeymoon will shine our life long: its beams will only fade over your grave or mine."
How St. John received the news, I don't know: he never answered the letter in which I communicated it: yet six months after he wrote to me, without, however, mentioning Mr. Rochester's name or alluding15 to my marriage. His letter was then calm, and, though very serious, kind. He has maintained a regular, though not frequent, correspondence ever since: he hopes I am happy, and trusts I am not of those who live without God in the world, and only mind earthly things.
You have not quite forgotten little Adele, have you, reader? I had not; I soon asked and obtained leave of Mr. Rochester, to go and see her at the school where he had placed her. Her frantic16 joy at beholding17 me again moved me much. She looked pale and thin: she said she was not happy. I found the rules of the establishment were too strict, its course of study too severe for a child of her age: I took her home with me. I meant to become her governess once more, but I soon found this impracticable; my time and cares were now required by another--my husband needed them all. So I sought out a school conducted on a more indulgent system, and near enough to permit of my visiting her often, and bringing her home sometimes. I took care she should never want for anything that could contribute to her comfort: she soon settled in her new abode18, became very happy there, and made fair progress in her studies. As she grew up, a sound English education corrected in a great measure her French defects; and when she left school, I found in her a pleasing and obliging companion: docile19, good-tempered, and well-principled. By her grateful attention to me and mine, she has long since well repaid any little kindness I ever had it in my power to offer her.
My tale draws to its close: one word respecting my experience of married life, and one brief glance at the fortunes of those whose names have most frequently recurred20 in this narrative21, and I have done.
I have now been married ten years. I know what it is to live entirely22 for and with what I love best on earth. I hold myself supremely23 blest--blest beyond what language can express; because I am my husband's life as fully is he is mine. No woman was ever nearer to her mate than I am: ever more absolutely bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. I know no weariness of my Edward's society: he knows none of mine, any more than we each do of the pulsation24 of the heart that beats in our separate bosoms25; consequently, we are ever together. To be together is for us to be at once as free as in solitude26, as gay as in company. We talk, I believe, all day long: to talk to each other is but a more animated27 and an audible thinking. All my confidence is bestowed28 on him, all his confidence is devoted29 to me; we are precisely30 suited in character--perfect concord31 is the result.
Mr. Rochester continued blind the first two years of our union; perhaps it was that circumstance that drew us so very near--that knit us so very close: for I was then his vision, as I am still his right hand. Literally32, I was (what he often called me) the apple of his eye. He saw nature--he saw books through me; and never did I weary of gazing for his behalf, and of putting into words the effect of field, tree, town, river, cloud, sunbeam--of the landscape before us; of the weather round us--and impressing by sound on his ear what light could no longer stamp on his eye. Never did I weary of reading to him; never did I weary of conducting him where he wished to go: of doing for him what he wished to be done. And there was a pleasure in my services, most full, most exquisite33, even though sad- -because he claimed these services without painful shame or damping humiliation34. He loved me so truly, that he knew no reluctance35 in profiting by my attendance: he felt I loved him so fondly, that to yield that attendance was to indulge my sweetest wishes.
One morning at the end of the two years, as I was writing a letter to his dictation, he came and bent36 over me, and said--"Jane, have you a glittering ornament37 round your neck?"
I had a gold watch-chain: I answered "Yes."
"And have you a pale blue dress on?"
I had. He informed me then, that for some time he had fancied the obscurity clouding one eye was becoming less dense38; and that now he was sure of it.
He and I went up to London. He had the advice of an eminent39 oculist40; and he eventually recovered the sight of that one eye. He cannot now see very distinctly: he cannot read or write much; but he can find his way without being led by the hand: the sky is no longer a blank to him--the earth no longer a void. When his first- born was put into his arms, he could see that the boy had inherited his own eyes, as they once were--large, brilliant, and black. On that occasion, he again, with a full heart, acknowledged that God had tempered judgment41 with mercy.
My Edward and I, then, are happy: and the more so, because those we most love are happy likewise. Diana and Mary Rivers are both married: alternately, once every year, they come to see us, and we go to see them. Diana's husband is a captain in the navy, a gallant42 officer and a good man. Mary's is a clergyman, a college friend of her brother's, and, from his attainments43 and principles, worthy44 of the connection. Both Captain Fitzjames and Mr. Wharton love their wives, and are loved by them.
As to St. John Rivers, he left England: he went to India. He entered on the path he had marked for himself; he pursues it still. A more resolute45, indefatigable46 pioneer never wrought47 amidst rocks and dangers. Firm, faithful, and devoted, full of energy, and zeal48, and truth, he labours for his race; he clears their painful way to improvement; he hews49 down like a giant the prejudices of creed50 and caste that encumber51 it. He may be stern; he may be exacting52; he may be ambitious yet; but his is the sternness of the warrior53 Greatheart, who guards his pilgrim convoy54 from the onslaught of Apollyon. His is the exaction55 of the apostle, who speaks but for Christ, when he says--"Whosoever will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me." His is the ambition of the high master-spirit, which aims to fill a place in the first rank of those who are redeemed56 from the earth--who stand without fault before the throne of God, who share the last mighty57 victories of the Lamb, who are called, and chosen, and faithful.
St. John is unmarried: he never will marry now. Himself has hitherto sufficed to the toil58, and the toil draws near its close: his glorious sun hastens to its setting. The last letter I received from him drew from my eves human tears, and yet filled my heart with divine joy: he anticipated his sure reward, his incorruptible crown. I know that a stranger's hand will write to me next, to say that the good and faithful servant has been called at length into the joy of his Lord. And why weep for this? No fear of death will darken St. John's last hour: his mind will be unclouded, his heart will be undaunted, his hope will be sure, his faith steadfast59. His own words are a pledge of this -
"My Master," he says, "has forewarned me. Daily He announces more distinctly,--'Surely I come quickly!' and hourly I more eagerly respond,--'Amen; even so come, Lord Jesus!'"
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